Page 10

CHAPTER NINE

Ruger

The final transfer paperwork for Backroads sits in front of me, each line a reminder of just how big a deal this is.

I can’t fuck this up—not just for me, but for Aunt Ellie, for the club.

"Sign here," the banker says, tapping a line at the bottom of the final page. "And here."

I scrawl my signature beside where Ellie's already appears, and just like that, the bar officially belongs to the Saint's Outlaws MC.

"Congratulations," he says, gathering the documents. "You're now the proud owner of Backroads Bar & Grill."

Across the table, Ellie's face is a mix of emotions—relief, nostalgia, maybe even a little grief.

That bar's been her anchor for three years, her independence after Striker, a way she reinvented herself.

"You okay?" I ask when the banker steps away to make copies.

"Just feels strange." She straightens the bracelets covering her old scars. "Letting go of something I built."

"You haven't let go of anything. Bar's still yours to run. We're just handling the finances now, taking the stressors off your back."

Her smile softens. "I know, honey. You're doing the right thing. For me, for the club."

"For Tildie too," I add. "She needs stability right now."

"That girl needs more than stability." Ellie's voice drops. "She's falling for you, Ryan. Hard. I can see it every time she looks at you."

Something warm unfurls in my chest. "Well, the feeling's mutual."

"I know. That's what worries me. Loving anyone in our world comes with risks."

Before I can respond, the banker returns with our copies. "Everything is officially transferred. The funds will clear by the end of day."

Outside, Bloodhound and Ounce wait beside their bikes, standing guard like always.

Bloodhound asks. "Done?"

I nod. "Bar's ours."

"Time to celebrate," Ounce grins. "Been too fuckin' long since we had a proper party."

"Been too long since we had anything to celebrate," I correct him.

But he's right.

Between Striker's setup, Marco's threats, and tightening security, our morale has taken a hit.

The brothers need a win, a chance to blow off some steam.

"Party here at Backroads tonight," I decide on a whim. "Invite everyone. Make sure Satyr brings his sound system."

Bloodhound's always the voice of caution. "You sure that's smart with everything going on?"

"We can't live in the dark forever. Dealin’ with Striker is still the plan, but tonight we’re gonna celebrate. Double security, check everyone at the door, but we party."

I didn’t even notice Ellie walking up. "If that's okay with you?"

Her smile widens. "About damn time. That place could use some life again."

Once I get back to the club, I find Tildie sitting on the porch, book in hand.

It’s been five days since she's been staying with me now, each night bringing us closer, breaking down walls I never really knew I'd built around myself.

She looks up as I approach, her smile hitting me square in the chest. "How'd it go?"

"All done." I lean down to kiss her, still surprised I get to do this now. "Backroads officially belongs to an outlaw motorcycle club."

"How scandalous." She marks her place in the book. "Ellie okay?"

"She's good. I promised we'd throw a celebration tonight. You up for that?"

She hesitates.

It's been days since the note on her car, and she's barely left the compound except for a couple of shifts at the bar.

Even then, I have three of my best men with her every damn time, and she might only put in four or five hours.

She’s terrified, and I can’t blame her.

"At Backroads?" she asks.

"Yeah. First official event under new management." I settle beside her. "Full security detail, everyone checked at the door. Nobody gets in without club approval."

"What about Marco?"

"He'd be stupid to try anything with the whole club present." I take her hand, tracing circles on her palm. "But if you're not comfortable, we can stay here."

Her jaw sets in that stubborn way I've come to adore. "No. I'm done hiding. If we're celebrating, I want to be there."

Pride surges through me at her courage. "That's my girl."

I don’t miss the way she smiles when I say ‘ my girl ’

"Besides," she adds with a smirk, "I'd like to see Bailey's face when she realizes I'm not going anywhere."

I laugh, pulling her close. "Speaking of Bailey... I may have assigned her to bar duty tonight."

Tildie laughs, hard. "You didn't."

"I did. She wants to work club events so badly, figured she should get the full experience."

Tildie's laugh is worth any bitching I'll hear from Bailey later. "You're evil."

"Strategic," I correct her. "Makes a point without me having to say a word."

Her eyes soften as she studies my face. "This is really happening, isn't it? Us."

"Yeah." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "Unless you've got second thoughts?"

"Not about you." She leans into my touch. "Just about what comes next. Marco, Striker, the Vultures... it's a lot of enemies for one relationship."

"Nothing worth having comes easy, Darlin'." I press my forehead to hers. "We'll handle it. We always will."

I busy myself for the rest of the day, and by sunset, Backroads is transformed.

Bikes line the parking lot, Christmas lights strung across the ceiling cast a warm glow over the packed bar.

Music pumps from speakers Satyr rigged in the corners, loud enough to get people moving but not so loud that conversations are impossible.

Ellie and Tildie work the main floor, both smiling more than I've seen in weeks.

Brothers and their women fill every table, a few trusted allies from friendly clubs mixed in.

Maddox and Coin man the front door, checking IDs, making sure no one gets in that we don’t want to.

Bloodhound does periodic security sweeps, his watchful eyes missing nothing.

Even though we’re celebrating, everyone’s armed and alert.

The threat is still real, but tonight we refuse to be ruled by it.

"Quite a turnout," Ellie says, appearing at my side with a beer. "Best night we've had in months."

"Place looks good," I agree, taking the offered drink. "How's Tildie holding up?"

Ellie's smile turns knowing. "Look for yourself."

I follow her gaze to where Tildie's laughing at something Porter's ol’ lady, Sarah, just said.

She's glowing tonight, confidence oozing off her, nothing like the terrified woman I first met.

Behind the bar, Bailey watches with barely concealed envy, forced to sling drinks while Tildie moves freely among the guests.

"She's fitting in," Ellie observes. "Club's accepting her."

"Hard not to." I can't tear my eyes away from her. "She's pretty fuckin’ amazing."

"That she is. But then, so are you." Ellie pats my arm. "Your father would be proud of the man you've become. The President, you are."

The compliment hits deep.

My father died when I was fourteen, but his legacy shaped everything I've done since. "Hope so."

"I know so." She squeezes my hand. "Now go dance with your woman before someone else does."

The suggestion surprises me. "I don't dance."

"Tonight you do." She gives me a gentle push. "Some things are worth looking a little foolish for."

The song changes to something slower as I approach Tildie—a sign Satyr's paying attention.

He shoots me a thumbs-up from the makeshift DJ booth. Idiot.

"Dance with me?" I ask, reaching for her hand.

Surprise flickers across her face. "You dance?"

"For you, I'll try." I lead her to the small space cleared near the speakers. "Fair warning, I might step on your toes."

Her laugh sends warmth through my chest as I pull her close, one hand at her waist, the other holding hers. "I'll risk it."

We sway together, her body fitting against mine like she was made for me.

Around us, the crowd fades to background noise as I lose myself in her amber eyes, the soft curve of her lips.

"Everyone's watching," she murmurs, a blush creeping up her neck.

"Let them." I pull her closer. "Might as well give them something to talk about."

I capture her lips with mine, the kiss gentle but unmistakably possessive.

Her body melts against me, all hesitation gone as she kisses me back.

When we part, her eyes are dark with desire. "Take me home after this?"

"Oh, you’d best count on it, Darlin’."

We continue swaying to the music, my thumb tracing circles on the small of her back.

The song's almost over when I feel it—the slight shift in the room's energy, the tightening of Bloodhound's posture across the bar, the sudden tension radiating through nearby brothers.

My eyes find the door just as he walks in—Striker.

He hasn't changed much in three years.

Still carries himself with the arrogance of someone who believes he's untouchable.

Hair grayer, face harder, but unmistakably my uncle.

He's flanked by two men wearing Grim Vultures cuts, both scanning the room with a predatory focus.

"Stay here," I murmur to Tildie, my body already positioned between her and the door.

Her fingers tighten on my arm. "Ruger?"

"It's him. My uncle." I kiss her forehead quickly. "Stay with Ellie."

I move through the crowd, brothers parting to let me pass, hands instinctively moving toward concealed weapons.

"No blood in the bar," I remind them as I pass. "Neutral ground."

Striker spots me, a slow smile spreading across his weathered face. "Nephew. Quite the party you’ve thrown, and I didn’t even get an invite, tsk ."

"Why the fuck would I invite you?" I stop a few feet from him, Bloodhound’s at my side, Ounce flanking my other shoulder.

"Yeah, I heard there was a change in ownership." Striker looks around with exaggerated interest. "Thought I'd come to congratulate the new proprietor. Still neutral ground protocol, right? No blood spilled at Backroads?"

"Rule still stands," I acknowledge. "What do you want, Striker?"

"Just to talk." He gestures to his companions. "Friends of mine. Havoc and Ditch from the Grim Vultures."

The two men nod, their stance relaxed but alert—seasoned enough to know posturing gets you nowhere in these situations.

"Heard someone hit your Amity clubhouse," I say, cutting to the chase. "Left our mark behind."

"Convenient timing, wasn't it?" Striker's eyes narrow. "Right when I was starting to build bridges between our clubs."

"It wasn't us." I hold his gaze. "You know that."

"Do I?" He steps closer, voice dropping. "Three years is a long time to hold a grudge, nephew. Long enough to plan something elaborate."

"If I wanted to hit you, I wouldn't be subtle about it."

A genuine laugh escapes him. "No, you never were one for subtlety. Must be why you're dancing with that pretty bartender in front of everyone. What's her name? Tildie, is it?"

Ice forms in my gut at the mention of her name. "What's your point?"

"Just making conversation." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Interesting choice. Not your usual type. Then again, she's not using her usual name either, is she?"

The confirmation that he knows about Tildie—knows about Elizabeth—sends fury coursing through me. "You're walkin’ a dangerous line, old man."

"We all are." He glances past me to where Ellie stands frozen by the bar. "Hello, Eleanor. You're looking well."

Ellie approaches slowly, her head high despite the slight tremor in her hands. "Striker. Can't say the same for you."

"Three years in exile ages a man." He studies her with an intensity that makes my protective instincts flare. "But I'm coming back stronger than ever."

"Is that why you're here?" she asks. "To threaten us? On what used to be my property?"

"Neutral ground, isn't it? Place for civilized conversations." He turns back to me. "Like the one we need to have about territory, about loyalty... about consequences for your actions."

"Say what you came to say."

He leans in, voice low. "Someone's playing both sides, nephew. Setting us against each other. When the dust settles, you might find your enemies aren't who you thought."

"And I'm supposed to believe you're not behind it?"

"Believe what you want. But ask yourself who benefits from a war between the clubs. Who's been feeding you information that's just convincing enough?" His eyes drift past me, settling on someone in the crowd. "Youth is easily manipulated when it thinks it's doing the right thing."

I follow his gaze to where Rookie stands by the pool table, his face pale.

Things are starting to click into place.

The insider knowledge, our shit being stolen…

Rookie's nervous behavior since the Amity clubhouse burned down.

"We'll finish this another time," I tell Striker, my voice deadly calm.

"Looking forward to it." He nods to his companions. "Let's go, boys. Party's suddenly lost its appeal."

As they turn to leave, Striker pauses at the door. "Oh, and Ryan? Tell your pretty bartender that her ex sends his regards. Says he's looking forward to their reunion."

The direct threat makes my vision blur with rage, every muscle screaming to follow him, to end this now.

Only Bloodhound's hand on my shoulder keeps me in place, reminding me I can’t do any of this here.

Backroads Bar & Grill is neutral ground, and I can’t do what I fucking want right now.

When they're gone, the bar erupts in tense conversation.

Brothers cluster together, ol’ ladies huddled nearby, everyone processing what just happened.

My eyes find Tildie immediately.

She stands with Ellie, her face pale but composed.

When our eyes meet, she straightens her shoulders, a silent message that she's okay.

I make my way to her, ignoring questions from brothers as I pass.

Right now, nothing matters but her.

"He knows," she says when I reach her. "About me."

"We knew they were connected." I wrap an arm around her waist, needing to feel her. "Now we know for sure."

"Did you see Rookie's face when Striker looked at him?" Ellie asks quietly. "Boy looked like he'd seen a ghost."

"I saw." The pieces fit too perfectly to ignore. "I'll handle it. Tonight."

"Ruger—" Tildie starts, concern in her voice.

"Not like that," I assure her. "But I need answers."

The celebration's effectively over, the mood shattered by Striker's appearance.

Brothers begin escorting their women to vehicles, orderly but swift.

I catch Bloodhound's eye across the room, nodding toward Rookie who's trying to slip out unnoticed. "Keep him here."

Bloodhound intercepts the prospect before he reaches the door, one hand on his shoulder guiding him to a back table.

"Take Tildie back to the compound," I tell Ounce. "Full security detail. Maddox, you're with Ellie."

"I'm not leaving you," Tildie protests.

"This isn't optional." My tone is harder than I want it to be, but fear for her safety overrides everything else. "I need to know you're safe while I handle this."

Her eyes narrow. "Don't pull that alpha bullshit on me, Ruger. I'm not some helpless?—"

"I know you're not helpless." I cup her face in my hands, forcing myself to soften my voice. "But right now, I need to focus on interrogating Rookie without worrying about you and Ellie being in the line of fire."

"Striker is an oddball," Bloodhound points out reasonably. "It’s safer for you both at the club with triple the security rather than here."

Tildie looks between us, then sighs. "Fine. But we're not done discussing this."

"Wouldn't expect anything less, Darlin'." I press a quick kiss to her forehead. "Go with Ounce. I'll be there soon."

After they leave, I settle across from Rookie, who can't quite meet my eyes.

"Talk," I demand.

He swallows hard. "Prez, I can explain?—"

"Start with how you know Striker."

Confusion flashes across Rookie's face. "That's the thing, Prez. I don't know him. Never met him."

"Then explain why he singled you out tonight."

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "It's Kinsey."

"Who the fuck is Kinsey?"

"Girl in my Engineering Design class." His voice drops. "We've been hooking up for a couple months. Grabbing drinks at O'Malley's near campus after study sessions."

I’m starting to put the pieces together. "And you've been running your mouth to her."

"Not intentionally." His eyes drop to the table. "Just, you know, trying to impress her. Mention club stuff when I've had a few. Makes me sound important."

"You stupid fuckin’ kid." My voice is deadly quiet. "What exactly have you told her?"

"Security rotations. Drop points. Which warehouses we use." Shame colors his face as he continues. "I was plastered, Prez. I’m sorry, I fucked up, and I know it. Last week, she said something that didn't sit right. We were at her place, and she got a call. After, she thanked me, said her dad appreciated all the intel I'd been sharing."

Ice forms in my gut. "And you didn't think that was worth mentioning?"

"I confronted her about it yesterday. Asked who her fuckin’ father was." His voice cracks. "She laughed, said I should've figured it out sooner. Said her name's actually Kinsey Callahan. That Striker's her father."

The name throws me for a loop. "Callahan."

"Yeah. Said her mom, Raven, was some clubwhore from Pittsburgh. Striker came back for them when he got exiled here." Rookie looks up, devastation etched across his features. "She's your cousin, Prez. And she's been playing me this whole fuckin’ time."

Bloodhound curses under his breath. "Perfect setup. She fucks information out of the prospect, passes it to Striker, who uses it to hit our locations and frame the Vultures."

"While doing the same to them," I finish, the pieces falling into place. "Creating a war neither side started."

"I swear I didn't know." Rookie's pleading now. "I thought she was just some college girl. She never mentioned MC connections."

"Because she's smarter than you." My restraint hangs by a thread. "Every week, you've been giving Striker exactly what he needs to destroy everything we've built."

"I'll make it right." Desperation edges into his voice. "Tell me how to fix this."

I study him—the genuine remorse, the betrayal still fresh in his eyes.

He’s not a traitor in the traditional sense, just a kid who thought with his dick instead of his brain.

We’ve all been there, but this is the only chance he’ll have to redeem himself.

It doesn’t help that Digger’s his cousin. Motherfucker.

Dumb, idiotic kid.

"You're confined to the clubhouse. No phone, no contact with anyone outside the club. Do your classes online. Tell your fuckin’ professors you had surgery or some shit, I don’t care." I lean forward, making sure he understands the gravity of his situation. "And you're going to tell us everything about Kinsey—where she lives, her routines, everyone she associates with."

"What are you going to do?"

A cold smile spreads across my face. "I'm going to remind my uncle why he shouldn't have messed with my family."

Two can play this game.

If Striker wants war, I'll give him one.

Just not the one he's expecting.